My garden is a pleasure dome of debauchery at present. Every life form seems to be off its face gorging on fruit or recovering from a hangover with the intent of putting their probosci right back into the trough as soon as the headache has lifted. Wasps peer at me with crossed antenna from bunches of plums and welcome me like a long lost friend. Wood lice and flies burrow into pears and lie immobile between binges. Every one but me is sozzled. All day every day.
Me? Well I curate gathering up the edible fruit and cart it back to the house where I concoct ingenious methods for force feeding the family - Crumble tonight? (3rd night in a row) Cobbler? Pie? Or a smoothie for the fashionistas? Its not that I don't approve of the orgy down the garden path - I'd love to set up the hammock and demand that someone peel me a grape - but I'm ashamed to say I worry about this cornucopia going to waste. So like an ant I store it and try to create value with it. Which belittles me and aggrandises my arthropod neigbours. The more fool me. The more (raspberry) fool them.
